Читать книгу The SEAL's Special Mission - Rogenna Brewer - Страница 12

CHAPTER THREE

Less than twelve hours later

IDLING IN A black Ford Explorer on the crimson and gold tree-lined drive, he could pass for any other parent waiting for his son or daughter after school.

Except the snowcapped mountain license plates had belonged to an abandoned junker in an overgrown backyard. And the tamper-resistant expiration stickers had been lifted off a newer vehicle.

Grit scratched his sleep-deprived eyes like sandpaper. He removed his Ray-Ban Predators and wiped at his weary lids. If he closed them now he wasn’t sure he’d ever open them again. Replacing his sunglasses, he pulled his ball cap lower.

The three o’clock bell signaled an end to the school day and the school week since it was Friday. Boys and girls poured out of the building, clamoring to be heard above the final peal. Mallory had put him in a private school, which made the boy harder to find. But not hard enough for anyone looking.

Not that he believed she’d hidden him out of fear or as a precaution. If that were the case, she and the boy wouldn’t be living in the same house she and her sister had grown up in.

He was sketchy on the details of the past seven years, but he knew her mother had passed away some time ago and that her father now resided in a nearby nursing home.

Nash glanced at the dated surveillance photo on the seat beside him. Hell of a thing not to know your own son. But he would have recognized the boy anywhere, right down to the Transformers T-shirt—it could have been his own second grade photo staring back at him.

Nash spotted Benjamin among a group of boys in uniform skipping down stairs despite being weighted down by backpacks bigger than they were. Quickly folding the photo along worn creases, he tucked it back into his pocket. As he watched, a man in a black turban approached the group of small boys. Nash reached for the door handle but pulled back at the last minute as a dark-skinned boy broke off from the crowd and ran up to embrace the lucky bastard.

Nash relaxed his grip on the Glock in his lap hidden beneath a newspaper.

He should have known better. His enemies wouldn’t be that obvious. If they even looked like his Middle Eastern brethren.

The group of second grade boys thinned out as they reached the sidewalk, with two of them breaking off in one direction and Benjamin in another.

“Damn it!” Nash checked his mirrors and then shoved the Explorer into gear. She didn’t seriously allow the boy to walk those six blocks to the house alone, did she?

After everything he’d seen and done these past seven years, he wouldn’t let a kid wander next door to his own house, let alone down the block in his own neighborhood. Urban jungles were some of the most dangerous.

As he pulled away from the curb, a teenage girl with two-toned, blond-on-black hair, rushed up to Benjamin. He heard her simultaneously scold him for not staying put and apologize for being late. The apparent babysitter and the boy continued down the block toward a rusted-out red Volvo.

The combination of an old car and a young driver didn’t make Nash feel any better about his son’s safety. But he drove on without so much as a glance in passing. Turning left at the third stop sign, he avoided the unmarked car parked across the street from his former in-laws’ home, which now belonged to Mal—not just his former sister-in-law, but also his son’s aunt and guardian.

If not for that familial connection, he would have braked at his first opportunity and snatched the boy right then and there. He checked the rearview mirror as the Volvo stopped at the same intersection before continuing toward the house.

Nash turned right at the alley and slowed the Explorer.

Modern pop tops punctuated the row of American Craftsman homes that made up the old Washington Park neighborhood that lay within spitting distance of downtown Denver. He’d scouted the area earlier. The stakeout appeared to be limited to the two Feds sitting in a black sedan out front.

At least a dozen federal agents should have been swarming the place by now. Unless, of course, they thought he was dead like the two federal marshals assigned to protect him.

In which case, they should have taken even more precautions.

He winced as a spasm in his side reminded him of his narrow escape and just how much blood he’d lost at the scene. Shoving back the brim of his ball cap, he swiped the beads of sweat forming on his brow.

Focus, Nash.

He tugged the ball cap back down and then took a familiar left turn out of the alley. He knew these lanes well—he’d grown up here.

After he’d entered the service, his mother had moved back East to be with family. As far as Sabine Nash knew, her only child—a convicted murderer—had died a coward in prison. He’d had to rely on Rabbi Yaakov to see that his mother paid a visit to their relatives in Israel for the time being. He didn’t have the time to get both her and his son to safety. Nash beat back a twinge of guilt.

Thank God his father hadn’t lived to see this day.

Though it was unlikely anyone from the old neighborhood would recognize him, including his own mother, Nash continued straight instead of taking another right. He didn’t want to drive past the old house where he’d grown up just in case their elderly neighbor, Mrs. Rosenberg, had lived to see her eightieth birthday.

* * *

MALLORY PUSHED HER father’s wheelchair, enjoying the relatively warm autumn weather as they strolled the parklike grounds between the assisted-living facility and his nursing home. The late afternoon sun reflected off the pond as they followed the winding path toward a chorus of honking geese who were making a pit stop on their way south for the winter.

“Slow down, Margaret! You’re driving too fast.”

“It’s me, Daddy, Mallory. Mom—” There was no point in bringing it up again. He’d just relive the pain of losing his wife of thirty-five years. Or worse, would only feel frustrated because he couldn’t remember her at all. “Mom couldn’t make it today.”

“Mallory?” He cranked his neck but couldn’t turn his head far enough back to look at her, so he shifted his frail body to face her. “I have a daughter named Mallory.”

“I know.” Mallory sat on a bench and then angled his chair toward her, hoping for some sign of recognition from him today. At least this seemed to be a good day.

“Going to make a damn fine lawyer someday.” The pride in his voice turned the remembrance bittersweet.

Her father had just made deputy district attorney when she’d told him she wasn’t going on to law school after receiving her undergraduate degree. Instead she’d applied for, and had been accepted into, the FBI Academy.

She’d told him that she still intended to put her pre-law studies to good use, but in law enforcement. Mallory had explained that she had a hard time seeing herself stuck behind a desk for the next thirty years.

She’d always been a serious tomboy, with no time for boys, at least not in the boyfriend and girlfriend way—she’d been too busy competing with them both academically and physically. Despite that, she’d always had more male friends than female friends in high school and college. She just found it easier to relate to men. More often than not, her male friends considered her one of the guys, and she’d come to accept that that made her a better friend than girlfriend.

These days she had very few friends of either sex, though she still preferred the company of men—to a point. Because by both male and female agents she’d forever be known as that rookie whose brother-in-law murdered her sister. The one who pulled her gun and then fainted.

She’d spent most of the past seven years behind a desk, constantly passed over for promotions. But it turned out to be in the best interest of the two most important men in her life, and she couldn’t regret that. Putting herself in the line of fire and leaving her father alone and Ben an orphan was not an option.

Being a single parent came with its own set of rules and responsibilities.

More recently, however, she’d made her own opportunities and finally felt as if she’d put the past behind her. She’d become part of an evidence recovery and processing team.

It might not be the job of her dreams, but at least she found her work interesting and maintained special agent status. This also meant she did a lot more fieldwork these days and carried a badge and a firearm again, which Ben thought was kind of cool and she found comforting.

Goose bumps raised the hairs on her arms, and she shivered.

“Are you cold, Daddy?” She tucked the lap blanket around him.

“Cold, no. I’m not cold.” He took a moment to assess his surroundings. “Maybe a little.” He amended his answer.

Mal lost track of time as the afternoon sun faded into evening and the temperature dropped. A slight breeze blew through the umber and gold trees with their scattered leaves. The afternoon sun had warmed their earthy fragrance and she breathed in the crisp, clean scent as it clung to the evening air.

Halloween was just around the corner. Exactly one week from today.

She must remember to stop by the grocery store on her way home for the pumpkin she’d promised Ben.

Taking the remnants of stale bread from the bag inside her purse, she handed a slice to her father. They took turns tossing bits and pieces into the water. Whenever the honks died down, one or the other of them would toss out another bit of bread for the geese to clamor over.

Her dad used to take her and Cara to Wash Park—Washington Park—to feed the geese on days just like this.

If he had to be lost in his memories, she figured that would be a nice one to get lost in.

While it often felt as if she and her dad were having two different conversations, every once in a while they connected over something as simple as the weather and a flock of geese.

Brushing the crumbs from her lap, Mallory reached out to her father and just sat holding his fragile hand in hers. She listened to the familiar nuances in his voice while he talked as if she were away, studying pre-law at Colorado University in Boulder and her mother and sister were still with them.

Cara married to Nash and living in San Diego.

Their mother having no greater care than tending her rosebushes and vegetable gardens.

After Cara’s death, Margaret Ward had simply given up on life. Even a grandbaby couldn’t bring her back from the brink of despair. She’d needed pills to get up in the morning and then pills to fall asleep at night. She’d died of an overdose shortly after Nash’s conviction.

An accidental overdose. At least that’s what Mallory chose to tell herself...when she wasn’t blaming Nash for her mother’s suicide.

Mallory’s father was made of sterner stuff. Older than his wife by a decade, he’d been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s nine years ago. Charles Ward had stubbornly controlled the onset of dementia with medication and had succeeded in having several lucid years after his diagnosis. Not so much lately, though.

Consigning him to an assisted-living facility, and then later the nursing home, had taken all the fight out of him. But it had been the right thing to do.

Mallory hadn’t been able to care for both her nephew and her father with his deteriorating mental and physical condition. Exhausted from trying, she came to a time when she had no choice.

She couldn’t take an afternoon nap or lie down at night without worrying her father might take the baby out for a walk and leave him somewhere, or give him a bath and then become distracted. Or worse, become confused and frustrated when he heard the baby crying.

Even as a twenty-three-year-old, she’d realized the baby’s safety had to come first.

Otherwise the consequences could have been tragic.

To her surprise, Nash’s mother never contested Mallory’s appointment as Ben’s guardian. Nor her subsequent adoption. Mallory supposed there wasn’t much the woman could do since her son had signed over Ben’s custody to Mallory on that day at Miramar. She tried never to think about that day or the days that followed.

The way Nash attempted to control the tremor in his hand as he signed papers relinquishing his rights as a father and making way for her to adopt his and Cara’s son...

The next day news broke in grizzly detail of Nash hanging himself with bedsheets, following a family visit—a custody hearing in San Diego being the excuse for Nash’s temporary transfer to the Level II facility.

Even though none of it was real, she still found it disturbing, watching the events unfold while she sat holed up in her hotel room. Even though she’d attempted to stay below the radar, the reporters had been relentless in tracking her down, wanting to know what she might have said or done to provoke his actions.

She’d known it was coming. Yet she hadn’t been prepared for the onslaught of questions. “What were Kenneth Nash’s last words to you, Ms. Ward? Did he confess? Did he leave a note? Your mother also committed suicide. Tragic coincidence? Suspicious circumstance? What’s the connection?”

She couldn’t leave the hotel room without microphones being shoved in her face. “How do you feel about the role you played in the arrest and conviction of your own brother-in-law and a decorated war hero? Are you aware your brother-in-law is being buried without ceremony in the Fort Leavenworth Military Prison Cemetery? Will you be attending the funeral, Ms. Ward?”

She’d been as unprepared for those questions as she had been for the profound feeling of loss that accompanied them. Another part of her had died that day. She’d lost her sister, her mother and to some extent her father.

What more did she have to lose?

Nash had taken everything that was youthful and innocent about her and destroyed it, irrevocably changing her and the direction of her life at twenty-two.

And yet she’d still mourned the brother-in-law she’d once known.

For a long time afterward, she felt as empty as the wooden crate lowered to the ground with nothing more substantial than sandbags to weight it down—assuming they’d weighted down his casket with sand. They could have interred an unidentified body for all she knew.

Cremation might have been easier but would have gone against the traditions of his faith.

Of course, most faiths had at least a moral objection to suicide and she was sure that included faking death. In any case, she did not attend the mockery of a funeral. The commander and several of Nash’s Navy SEAL buddies were there for the show...or perhaps some other reason.

His mother had also attended the service. To this day, Mallory could barely look the woman in the eye, knowing what she knew about Nash. At the time, she didn’t know how they’d kept her from claiming the body when she had every right to do so.

Prisoners did not have to be buried inside prison walls.

Later Mal discovered they’d simply handed his grieving mother a letter stating it was his preference—since he couldn’t be buried beside his wife or near his father.

If he had even tried to use the family plot next to Cara, Mallory would have had something to say about it. She didn’t understand canon law governing Jewish burial, but suspected not being able to be buried next to his father had something to do with suicide, which used to be the case with the Catholic Church until the pope declared it otherwise.

What did it matter? He didn’t commit suicide.

And though she might wish otherwise, he wasn’t dead.

As far as she knew anyway.

It had been years since that fateful phone call.

The man was a ghost. Not just the kind that haunted her past, but the living, breathing, deep-cover-operative kind. That thought alone was enough to raise the goose bumps on her flesh. Ghosts had a way of popping up when you least expected them.

God, she hadn’t thought about any of this in so long.

A hand curled around hers with surprising strength and she jumped. “Will you come back to see me, Meg?”

Mallory didn’t bother to correct her father even though the emptiness of it all squeezed at her chest. Meg was his pet name for her mother. “Of course I will.”

* * *

NASH WAITED INSIDE the house. In a working-class neighborhood, it was just as easy to break in during the day as at night under cover of darkness. He kept quiet upstairs while the young sitter and the boy moved around downstairs. The creaky, century-old house would have given him away if he was any less cautious and if the kids were more alert.

In the hall bathroom, he tended his torn sutures as best he could without running tap water. He could hear the babysitter moving around in the kitchen. The boy had settled into the front room with a video game. Something age-appropriate, he assumed, from the lack of bloodcurdling screams.

And because he was fairly certain Mal would curb the kid’s activities away from violence.

He didn’t know why he thought that. Maybe he was confusing what Cara would have done, and what he and Cara would have wanted, with how Mal was actually raising his son.

Truth be told, he didn’t have a clue how Ben was being raised. He wanted to believe the boy was growing up in a healthy and happy environment. One that wasn’t haunted by his mother’s murder and his father’s failures.

The smell of popcorn wafted up to him. Nash hadn’t eaten anything more substantial than a protein bar all day, and his stomach churned out a reminder. While he didn’t have much of an appetite, he did need to keep up his strength. Tugging his bloodstained T-shirt back in place, he zipped the equally dark hoodie over it as he left the bathroom.

On his way into the boy’s room, he knocked a photo frame off the dresser.

It hit the carpet with a soft thud.

Nash winced and waited for any indication the kids had been alerted to his presence. After several seconds, he uncoiled his tense muscles.

It wasn’t like him to be so careless.

Endless energy drinks were making him jittery.

For good reason.

Mallory should have been home from work by now. Even a quick stop at the grocery store or for a carry-out dinner shouldn’t have taken her this long.

He picked up the frame and found Cara smiling back at him from what was probably the last photograph he’d taken of her at Mission Beach. The digital photo frame changed from one picture to the next, flooding him with memories of happier times. It had been a lifetime since he’d seen the exact shade of his wife’s strawberry blond hair and green eyes. Images of her beauty had faded to soft-focus memory.

A look. A laugh.

The punch line of a joke she could never get right.

Not a day went by that he didn’t think about how much he’d loved her. How much he still loved her. How he’d failed to protect her as a husband.

And as a Navy SEAL.

The first rule to starting a new life was that you couldn’t take the old one with you even though the personal baggage always came along for the ride. This would be his second incarnation. Kenneth Nash was dead and buried along with his wife—if not literally, then figuratively. The man standing in their son’s bedroom was nothing more than a cold, empty shell.

Here to tie up loose ends. That’s all.

Having a picture of Cara wouldn’t bring her back.

Still he hesitated before setting her photo back on the dresser. There were others, none of them framed, tucked into holders and around the dresser mirror.

There were photos of Benjamin with each of his grandparents. The one with Margaret was taken when the boy was still a newborn. The one with Charles in a wheelchair looked recent, as did the one with Nash’s mother, which appeared to have been taken in New York City outside F.A.O. Schwarz around Thanksgiving. Last year if he had to guess. Had they visited the city for Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade? Done some Christmas shopping?

Spent Hanukkah with his mother?

Had the boy experienced both Hanukkah and Christmas last year for the first time? Or had he done so every year?

He and Cara had worked through those fundamental differences before marriage—or at least that’s what he’d thought.

Until Cara got pregnant and they found out differently.

He needed to believe they would have worked things out eventually.

They weren’t the first couple of different faiths to marry and have children. They would have found their Jewish/Catholic compromise, and their kids would have been just fine being raised with the diversity of two faiths. That’s what he believed.

But he hadn’t expected his wife’s side of the family to have anything to do with his side after his conviction. He’d asked his mother not to interfere with his unorthodox decision to allow his sister-in-law—his non-Jewish sister-in-law at that—to raise his son.

On a practical note, Mal was young. His mother was not.

He had other family, but he’d never even considered them when it came to raising Ben.

Mal would be on a constant lookout and was physically and mentally better equipped to handle trouble, which made her the best choice as Ben’s guardian.

But it had been more of an emotional decision. Mal was the closest thing he could give the boy to a mother, and she’d see to it that Ben grew up knowing Cara—even if that meant he would also grow up hating his father.

It was good to see Mal had kept in touch with his mother, but that relationship added another wrinkle to the current situation. He’d been operating under the assumption that Mal and Ben had no close ties to his family.

Yet oddly enough, there was even a picture of him in uniform in the photomontage, which included several more pictures of Ben with friends, his babysitter, his aunt Mal.

How old had she been the last time he saw her, twenty-three, twenty-four? Staring daggers at him from across that table in the interrogation room.

The clever and carefree girl from their youth—with flame-red corkscrew curls hanging down her back—was long gone. From the moment she’d stuck a gun in his face, lawyers had seen to it that they never got the chance to talk again before the trial. She wouldn’t even make eye contact with him while on the witness stand and wasn’t allowed to sit through the proceedings until after her testimony and the closing arguments.

But at one time they’d been more than family—they’d been friends.

Even after all these years, sadness still etched her smile and he bore the brunt of responsibility for putting it there. Beyond that sad smile, there were other changes to her physical appearance. For one, she’d straightened her hair, and she apparently wore dark designer suits these days, looking every bit the professional government agent.

A real G-man, government man. Or G-woman—person—as the case may be.

Kidnapping the kid would be difficult enough without dragging an armed and angry aunt along for the ride.

But he owed her that much at least.

No one else should have to die because of him. Humbled by the sacrifice Torri and Thompson had made, he knew he had to make his escape count. He had to save his family. And he had to honor the two marshals, and Cara, and countless others, by staying alive to testify.

He grabbed the boy’s backpack from the bed where Benjamin had dumped it after school. Nash stuffed a change of clothes inside, and then moved on to Mallory’s room, where he found her gym bag and then shoved some of her clothes into it.

It dawned on him that the gym bag’s presence was not a good sign. If it wasn’t a workout keeping her late, what was it?

He checked his watch again. It’d be fully dark soon. If she wasn’t here within the next twelve minutes, he’d have some tough choices to make.

Stepping into the adjoining bathroom, he grabbed her toothpaste and toothbrush. It struck him as odd that there was no sign of a man in her life. Not so much as an extra toothbrush to indicate a sleepover. But he didn’t have time to dwell on whether or not there was the complication of a boyfriend. Other than how unfortunate it would be for any guy who walked in the door with her tonight.

While he couldn’t account for every variable, he had to hope she didn’t spend Friday nights away from home—or at least not this Friday night.

Nash scowled at his reflection. While there was no love lost between him and his former sister-in-law, leaving Mal behind was not an option. If she wasn’t here by nineteen hundred hours, he’d find out from the boy where she was and they’d go get her.

Worst-case scenario, Bari or one of his henchmen had already gotten to her.

Just the thought was enough to send chills down his spine.

Ben’s safety had to come first. Not Mal, not his mother—not even Sari—came before Ben, and those were just the cold, hard facts.

But he’d have a hard time living with himself if anything happened to Mallory—or with any of the women on the periphery of his life—because of him. His conscience would demand that he go after her. His conscience was why he was here now instead of already on the road.

Back in the bedroom, he checked both nightstands looking for Mallory’s handgun.

Assuming she had more than one firearm, where would she keep them? Some place out of the kid’s reach. He scanned the room and then settled on the closet, where he found a fireproof lockbox on the shelf underneath some sweaters.

He felt along the dusty ridge of the doorframe inside the closet until he came across the key. The most logical place to look was usually the place to find what you were looking for. The lockbox contained her SIG Sauer and a box of 9 mm bullets among life’s important papers—birth certificates, death certificates, adoption papers.

Dead presidents.

Not the amount of cash needed to start a new life, but enough for a household emergency or a quick getaway. He didn’t think twice before shoving the money into his pants pocket.

Checking her unloaded gun, he grabbed the box of bullets. The 9 mm shells would fit both their weapons.

Tucking her SIG into his waistband at his back alongside his Glock, he wondered why she’d kept the weapon. There was no doubt in his mind the SIG Sauer was the same one he’d given her as a graduation present from Quantico. The one she’d pointed at him while reading him his rights.

A car door slammed. Nash drew the bedroom curtain aside to check it out. Mallory had just gotten out of her white Prius with a bag of groceries in hand and a pumpkin tucked under her arm.

The two agents parked across from the house approached her with a flash of agency badges. Nash couldn’t make out what they were saying, but Mal dropped the pumpkin and everything else she carried with a splat as she ran toward the house.